


Violence and Variations

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Extra Treat, Face Slapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Abuse, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Tim thought he could leave his past behind him. But bad things have a way of catching up to you eventually. Or to those you love.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Original Male Character(s), Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Violence and Variations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arazsya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/gifts).



> Beta'd by MildredMost and peevee, who are the absolute best.

Tim almost doesn’t answer the phone; it’s something that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

It’s been a long day, made longer by Jon’s irritable mood at the lack of progress they’re making tidying up the Archives and with Martin in general – Jon’s not the type to let things go, and Martin’s the type to get more flustered the more he wants to please, so their relationship hasn’t improved since the Great Dog Mishap of 2015 and may never do so. Normally Tim isn’t the type to get easily irritated, but today is the exception. It’s the anniversary of the day that Danny died, and for the entire week he’s been on edge, snapping at people who really don’t deserve it and generally being an arse, so much so that Sasha has told him that until he manages to pull his head out of it they aren’t speaking.

Martin has borne the brunt of Tim’s irritation instead, and he’s taken it with a kind of sad resignation that had wound Tim up even more earlier but now makes him feel like utter shit, and that’s the only reason he answers his mobile when he sees Martin’s name flash across the screen.

“Date a bust, then?” he asks, falsely jovial, then winces. Of all the things that he could have started with, that may be the worst. Because that had been the proverbial last straw today, hadn’t it? Martin’s _date_.

Martin had been excited, was the thing. Happy. He’d wanted to talk about it, and who else was there to tell? Jon? Sasha? Martin was afraid of Jon, or at least nervous around him, and while Sasha was wonderful she and Martin weren’t really friends. _Tim_ and Martin, however, were. Tim sometimes suspected that he was Martin’s _only_ friend, and the thought often made his chest hurt a little. Martin was, well. Martin was a pretty decent bloke, wasn’t he, once you got to know him, but no one ever seemed to want to. It was a pity, really, because underneath all the timidity he was actually quite lovely and not exactly hard on the eyes, either.

And it seemed like someone else had noticed, for once. Some bloke he’d met wanted to take him out and he’d been all but bursting to tell someone, and it was just his bad luck that that someone was Tim. Tim, who had just been snapped at by Jon for not organizing the shelves well enough, and never mind that he hadn’t even gotten to the shelf that Jon had been moaning about. Tim, who hadn’t been sleeping well thanks to the nightmares that always came with this particular anniversary, and who’d been on the edge of breaking something all day because it was either that or curl into a corner and sob over all he’d lost. Tim, who wasn’t impressed that Martin hadn’t picked up on any of this, and the fact that Tim didn’t actually _want_ him to pick up on it didn’t seem to matter.

And okay, maybe there was a touch of something else involved. He’d all but crawled into Martin’s lap not two weeks before under the guise of teasing him about his newest crush, and other than going red and stuttering a bit Martin had had no reaction, but oh, this bloke he met at the bus stop was apparently enough to get his eyes shining and his mouth smiling like it was all he wanted to do. Fine. Sure. Good for him, really, but it was nothing Tim cared about. Nothing he wanted to hear.

So he had rebuffed Martin’s attempts to talk and then, when Martin had asked in that stupid worried voice of his if anything was wrong, Tim had snapped. Told him to mind his own business, focus on his date, because god knew he’d need all the help he could get there. Then, driven by a need to hurt someone else as much as he was hurting, he’d added that when his date ditched him he could call Tim for a lift home.

Martin hadn’t replied, just flinched, mouth finally losing the small smile and dropping into a wounded _oh._ The flinch had made Tim stop, but he hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t really wanted to either, not until it was too late. By the time Tim pulled his head out per Sasha’s orders, Martin had left for the day, for once not lingering around in a hopeless attempt to impress Jon with his work ethic.

Now Tim opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can he’s cut off.

“Hello, Tim,” a voice says, and Tim goes cold. The voice isn’t Martin’s, but he knows it. Knows it all too well. He feels his stomach go light and airy, and he nearly loses his grip on the mobile, managing to catch it just before it slips through his suddenly numb fingers. He brings it back to his ear with a hand that’s trembling so hard he almost loses it again; he presses the mobile hard against his face in an unsuccessful attempt to quell it.

“Where is Martin?” he says, and the tremble is in his voice, too. He can hear it, and he knows the man on the other end can, too. Knows that it pleases him.

There’s a sigh on the other end. “He’s here,” the voice says, and Tim closes his eyes. “He’s sleeping. I wore him out. I must say, Tim, you have excellent taste. He really is very lovely.”

“What did you do to him?” Tim asks, and there’s a laugh, cruel and mocking.

“Nothing he didn’t ask for. He begs so very prettily, darling. Better than you, even, and you remember how much I used to love to hear you beg.”

Tim remembers. Remembers kneeling on the floor, head bowed and hands tied, begging for whatever the other man wanted to dish out, anything he wanted to do to him. Knowing that not begging would just make it worse. Remembers craving it in a way, because at least it drowned out the pain of Danny’s death.

“Leave him alone,” he says now, voice hoarse. “He isn’t a part of this.”

Another laugh. “Oh, but he is,” the man says. “You made him part of it. What did I tell you, Tim? You’re mine, you’re always going to be mine and nothing you do will change it. Did you really think that I would just let you go?”

Before Tim can reply, he hears a faint moan, then Martin’s voice comes through the mobile’s speaker.

“Mark? Mark, what’s going on? I don’t – why can’t I m –“

There’s a sharp crack of flesh on flesh, and Martin lets out a soft cry. Another slap, and Tim flinches, clutching the mobile so tightly the plastic creaks. He remembers. Remembers the shock of it the first time, the way that it had made his head rock to the side. The way that he hadn’t quite grasped what was happening at first, hadn’t understood.

“First rule,” Mark says. Same as he had back then, when it was Tim in Martin’s place. Tim knows that everything is the same. He knows that Martin is naked and bound, still struggling out of the last vestiges of whatever drug he was given, sluggish brain trying to understand. That he’s trying to reconcile the man who had been so interested in him, who had taken him home (only not home, not really – the places Mark chooses to begin his work are never home. There’s always that chance that it could go badly, after all) and taken him apart with the one who slapped him as casually as he might order dinner. That he’s being watched with a mix of greedy possessiveness and an odd gentleness, the latter of which only confuses him more. “No speaking unless I tell you to. Understand?”

“Wh-“ another slap, this one harder, and Martin cries out again. “Sto –“ Yet another, even harder, and this time it’s Tim who speaks, his voice cracking.

“Stop! Mark, stop it, please, don’t –“

Mark laughs cruelly. “I’ll stop when he understands,” he says, and slaps Martin again. This time Martin is silent, and Mark purrs in approval. “Oh, very good. He’s quick; quicker than even you were, and you were pretty damn quick, weren’t you?” There’s the sound of the mobile being fumbled with, and then Mark speaks again, sounding farther away. “I’ve got a special guest here for our show tonight, Martin. Say, hello, now. Don’t be shy.”

Silence, and Tim realizes that he’s the one that Mark wants to speak.

“Martin,” he says.

“Tim?” Martin’s voice sounds incredulous, and he’s slapped again. The bitten off noise he makes when it happens has Tim flinching and making a small sound of his own; a tiny, useless noise of pain and protest that Mark wouldn’t listen to even if he heard it.

“Maybe not so smart after all,” Mark says. “That’s okay; I’m a good teacher. Aren’t I, Tim?”

Tim clenches his teeth and doesn’t answer, and Martin cries out as Mark slaps him again.

“Aren’t I?” he says again, and Tim closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, and then, “stop hurting him. Please.”

“Well, that really depends on him, doesn’t it? And on you.” Mark says. “Martin, love, tell Tim what it is I have in my hand.”

“I-it’s a. A knife,” Martin says, and oh, there it is. The fear. It’s the thing that Mark likes most. The thing that he lives for. Tim remembers it well, and yet he breathes a sigh of relief. It could have been worse. It could have been the gun.

“I can sense you thinking about being evil, Tim,” Mark says, and his voice sounds so cheerful that Tim finds himself gritting his teeth. “I bet you would like nothing more than to play hero for sweet Martin here, wouldn’t you? Try to track us down. Ring the police. Save him from big bad Mark. But here’s the thing. You try anything like that – if I so much as think that you’re working yourself up to it – I will slit his throat and the only thing left for you to find will be a body.” He pauses to let it sink in, and when he resumes speaking Tim can hear the smile in his voice. “Oh, Tim. I can hear you thinking. You think I’m lying, that you know me and that I never did hurt _you_ all that badly, after all. That it was never anything you didn’t eventually recover from. There are so many things that you don’t know about me, love. But you may find them out tonight. Shall we find out what sweet Martin thinks?” A pause, and then in a gentle, prodding voice, “What do you think, Martin?”

Martin takes a shaky breath. “I-I think you’re insane,” he says, and then cries out in pain. Tim closes his eyes.

“Not the question,” Mark chides, sounding indulgent, sounding _fond_ , and Tim shudders.

“Stop it,” he says. “Just –“

“I’m not doing anything he’s not asking for. And that’s the last time you get to speak out of turn. Now, Martin. Do you believe me when I say that if either of you try to be brave there’ll be nothing but a body left for him to play hero for?”

“Yes,” Martin says in a small voice that hurts Tim to hear.

“Oh, very good,” Mark says, and there’s a soft sound that takes Tim a moment to place. A kiss. Martin makes a muffled noise of protest but Mark only kisses him again. Tim doesn’t want to picture it but it’s in his head before he can stop it: Martin naked and bound, trying to squirm away as Mark’s tongue invades his mouth. Mark with one hand on his chin, holding him in place, the other perhaps stroking the knife blade down his cheek, a warning. Martin submitting because there’s nothing else he can do, mouth going lax and compliant beneath Mark’s, the only defiance he’s capable of a refusal to return the kiss.

Eventually the soft, slick sounds of lip against lip stop. “Oh, you _are_ sweet,” Mark says. “I can see why you like him.”

“What?” Martin says, and Mark tsks.

“Lovely as you are, you have to learn when you’re allowed to talk,” he says, and does something that has Martin making another pained noise. Tim thinks he knows what he’s doing – no point in bringing a knife along if he’s not going to use it, after all – and he flinches away from the idea, mouth dropping open before he thinks about it.

“Fucking stop,” he says, voice hoarse and harsh, and Mark cuts Martin again. This time Martin’s cry is loud and full of pain.

“Now Tim,” Mark says, and Martin cries out again. “What did I tell you? Martin needing to be reminded I understand, but you? You were always so good.” His voice drops, becomes something low and intimate. “Remember how it used to be, darling? How good you were? How much you liked what I made you do? How I made you feel?”

Tim closes his eyes and shakes his head without speaking. His stomach rolls. He remembers. Remembers things that he’d told himself he’d forgotten. Mark hovering over him, hurting him. Telling him that he was the only person who cared about him, and no one else would miss him if he were gone. And the worst part was that he hadn’t been wrong, not really. Not then.

Tim had isolated himself in the wake of Danny’s death, had been so unpleasant to deal with that even his closest friends had stopped trying. Mark had sounded just like this when he told Tim that he was lucky that Mark liked Tim enough to put up with him because no one else would. He remembers how long it took him to get away. How he kept going back because for a while he’d believed that he deserved it. That he needed it.

But he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t want it. And yeah, Mark had also been very good at making his body sing, making him beg and writhe for reasons that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with his hands and his mouth and his cock, but no one was good enough in bed to make up for the obsessive behavior, the jealousy, the almost casual violence. It hadn’t been worth the insults and the misery. Tim may have come harder than he can remember, the time with the gun, but he’d also spent nearly an hour in the loo after, shaking and sweating and sicking up what felt like a month’s worth of dinners.

The time with the gun had been what made him leave for good.

“Tim?” Mark says, and Tim swallows hard, tasting bile. His stomach rolls and it’s all he can do to force the words out of throat, which has gone tight.

“I remember.”

“Miss it, don’t you? I miss you too, love. So much. Miss the way you gave it up for me. No one’s ever done it quite like you.” Tim hears rustling, and then Mark’s voice is even closer, lower, sliding from the phone into Tim’s ears like poison. “You can end this, you know. Come back to me and I could decide I don’t have to take him instead. You want to, I know you do. Do you think I haven’t watched you? I know what your life is like. Pathetic little one night stands, no one ever giving you what I gave you. What you need. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you? Waiting for me to give it to you the way only I can.”

 _No_ , Tim thinks, and for a second believes that the desperate voice he hears is his own. But then Martin goes on, and Tim feels tears prick his eyes at the fury in his voice.

“Don’t, Tim,” he says. “Don’t listen to him, he’s –“ he’s cut off when Mark strikes him, and Tim can tell by the sound of the blow that this time it was a closed fist.

“Shut up,” Mark snarls, the seductive lilt in his voice completely gone, and Tim blinks, feeling like he’s being released from a trance. “You think you know him? You think you know what he’s done?”

“Don’t,” Tim says, but he still feels like he’s half somewhere else and the word comes out too soft for anyone to hear. Or maybe they don’t _want_ to hear it.

“You think you were eager? Tim used to beg for it. Used to get on his knees and beg for my cock between his pretty lips. Used to ask me to hurt him over and over, took it like he craved it. If I would have let him he would have lived with my cock in his arse and a gag in his mouth and he would have _thanked_ me for it. Because it’s what he deserved, isn’t that right Tim?”

Tim’s stomach rolls. He wants to throw up, wants to throw the phone away from him and scream. He hates Mark, hates him more than he’s ever hated anyone save the things that took Danny from him, and if it were just the two of them he would spit in his face and tell him so, but he can’t. Not with Martin at his mercy. Martin, who doesn’t deserve any of this, whose only crime was being Tim’s friend. Who’s here now only because Tim likes him.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, ignoring the question of want because it doesn’t matter. Tim’s not the important one here. “I’ll do it.”

There’s a long pause. “You mean it, don’t you,” Mark says finally. Something snags in his voice; Tim can’t get a read on it. “You’ll come back to me.”

Martin makes a noise of protest. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll slit your damn throat and have done with it,” Mark tells him, and Tim feels his blood go cold at the almost absent way he says it, like Martin no longer matters one way or the other. _He won’t,_ he tells himself. _If he does he knows you’ll never go back_. But it is one thing to tell himself that and another to know that if he does decide to kill Martin after all there’s nothing that Tim can do about it except listen.

“For him,” Mark says, and now Tim can place the thing in his voice. It’s fury, black and terrible, and he understands how horribly he’s misstepped when Mark goes on. “You care about him that much. _Him._ ” There’s a clatter and Martin lets out a pained yell. “Tell you what, sweet,” Mark says, voice so low that Tim has to strain to hear it. “I want you to remember this. I want you to know exactly how much he wants you. Savor it, because when I’m done he’s never going to want you again.”

Tim would laugh if the situation weren’t so horrible. Mark’s got it all wrong, but that’s not really surprising. If he paid even half a second’s worth of attention then he’d know that whatever idle thoughts Tim may or may not have in the privacy of his own room, Martin isn’t interested. He’d made that clear weeks ago. And unlike Mark, Tim isn’t in the habit of forcing himself where he’s not wanted.

“I think we’ve all chatted quite enough,” Mark says, back to being as pleasant as if this were a friendly dinner party and the awkward small talk can now be dispensed with. “It’s time I get what I came for. Try not to be too jealous, eh?”

Tim hears movement, gentle sound of flesh on flesh. A soft sigh of pleasure. Mark is stroking himself. Tim doubts he really needs to; Mark has gotten off on inflicting pain for as long as Tim has known him, and he thinks that he’s probably been hard since the first strike of his palm against Martin’s face. But this will draw Martin’s eyes to his cock, hard and swollen, and that’s what he wants. He wants Martin to think of what he plans to do with it, wants the moisture in his mouth to dry up, for his pulse to race. For him to know exactly what’s going to happen and know that there is no way out.

“Get up, on your knees,” Mark says. Tim hears the sounds of Martin struggling to do so, remembers how he used to struggle, thrown off balance with his hands behind his back and his feet tied at the ankles. How Mark would watch him, eyes half-mast and hand moving over himself. How he would lick his lips whenever Tim lost his balance and thudded painfully to the floor. The days he talked back he fell often.

Martin falls too, once, hitting the ground with a groan. Mark groans when he does, but his is all pleasure. “Try again,” he says, all false encouragement. “I know you can do this for me.” The second time Martin manages to struggle to his knees and Mark sighs. “Good boy,” he says.

Tim wonders how Martin takes that. There’s no reaction from Mark, so he supposes whatever is on Martin’s face it isn’t enough to piss him off. Tim hadn’t liked it much…at first. After a while though he’d come to crave it. Praise meant that Tim had proven himself; that he’d earned pleasure instead of pain. And a part of him had really liked knowing he was capable of pleasing someone. Part of him still does.

There’s the sound of a slap, and Tim flinches. “Don’t pull away,” Mark says. “You’ll enjoy this much more if you open your mouth. I’m going to fuck you, and it doesn’t matter to me if I’m dry or not when I do it. Thought it might matter to you. But maybe you like a little pain. Tim used to, didn’t you, Tim?” Tim doesn’t answer, but Mark isn’t looking for one; he goes on with barely a pause. “It’s up to you, of course. You might still be slick from earlier, if you want to chance it. Or you can open your mouth and get me good and wet. Your choice.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. “That’s it,” Mark says. “Any hint of teeth and you and this knife are going to get a lot better acquainted.”

Martin gags a little when Mark pushes inside; it’s something he does often, Tim remembers. He loves the way it feels, pushing himself into the back of some unsuspecting person’s throat, to feel it flex around him as they struggle. He used to like to force Tim’s head down with one hand while fucking his face with the other, liked the way that it made Tim drool, made him messy. Liked the panic in his eyes when he’d hold him there too long and he couldn’t get enough air.

He’s doing it now, Tim is sure; he can tell from the sounds Martin is making; the desperate little noises that indicate incoming panic. Mark moans, the sound covering up Martin’s soft gagging. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says. “Get it nice and wet, make it sloppy. Fuck, your mouth. You ever get a taste of it, Tim? Or did you prefer to be the one on your knees? Know which way you preferred it with me.” Mark moans again. “You should see him right now, all big eyes, pretty lips stretched out over my cock. He’s gagging for it.”

Tim doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be thinking about the way it must look, but he can’t help it. It’s impossible not to when all he can hear is the wet sounds Mark’s cock makes as it slides in and out of Martin’s mouth, the noises he makes when Mark slides too deep. Mark’s moans. And his voice, syrupy sweet, describing every detail. Forcing the knowledge of what Martin’s mouth looks like wrapped around his cock into Tim’s brain, whether he wants it there or not.

“That’s enough,” Mark says, voice slurred with pleasure. There’s an obscene slurping sound, and then the light slap of flesh on flesh. “Look at this arse,” he says. “Bet you’ve thought about getting in there, eh, Tim? You ever let him?” this clearly for Martin, and unlike with Tim, Mark waits for the answer, delivering a hard slap to Martin’s arse when he doesn’t answer fast enough. Tim thinks it’s his arse, anyway, and the fact that Martin’s yelp is more surprise than pain confirms it.

“Has he?” Mark asks, and while he still sounds amiable the darkness lingers underneath. Tim can hear it and he suspects Martin can actually see it. There’s only one answer that Martin can give to this question and not get hurt, and thankfully it’s the only one Martin has.

Martin still says nothing, and Tim finds that he’s shifting from foot to foot, worried. There’s this thing that Martin does sometimes when pushed, this stubborn little tilt of his jaw, and Tim just knows that he’s doing it now, because of course he is. Tim also knows how thin Mark’s patience can be, and how badly he can react to being thwarted, even in the smallest of ways.

“No,” Tim says. Blurts really, a desperate attempt to keep Mark from getting angry. He feels his face flush with the shame of it, and his effort turns out to be for nothing, as Mark does something that makes Martin give yet another cry of pain, and then another.

“Is that so?” Mark asks, and Martin cries out again.

“Yes!” he says, voice strained.

“Lovely,” Mark says. He grunts. Martin makes a noise like all the air has been punched out of his body. Soon after Tim begins to hear the sounds of fucking, hard and animalistic, Mark fairly growling as he rides Martin, their flesh coming together with a brisk clapping noise.

At first, the noises that Martin makes are mostly grunts and groans forced out of him by the force of Mark’s thrusts, but then something changes, shifts, and Martin moans, the sound high and almost panicked.

“No, I-“ he starts, sounding small and lost, but he can’t even get the words out before moaning again.

“Thought you’d like that,” Mark says, pleased. 

Tim’s eyes prick with tears; he closes them. He wants to pull the mobile away from his ear, put it down or mute it, anything to keep from hearing Martin begin to like what’s being done to him, begin to work with Mark rather than against him. He doesn’t blame him for it, not in the least; Tim well remembers how good Mark is with his hands, how when he wanted to he could find just the right angle to make him see stars. Tim used to beg for him. Used to try to open himself up to Mark’s cock as his hands slid along his body, mapping it out. Finding all the places that he’d bruised or cut him and making them hurt just enough to make the pleasure in his arse and cock that much more intense. The way he’d find the places on his neck and back that ached to be touched and sucked and laved with a wet tongue. Better to focus on the pleasure than think about what was happening, better to pretend that body was all that mattered. Some days it was the only way to get through it, and he’s not surprised that Martin’s doing the same.

Tim feels himself start to throb. _Put the mobile down_ , he thinks. _Stop listening; you don’t have to_. But he does; he’s as caught as Martin is, just as lost. Part of it is the memory winding its way through him; it crawls over his skin like fingers, reminding him of all the places Mark had touched. All the ways it had hurt and all the ways it had felt almost unbearably good. Part of it is the way they sound together, the steady rasp of their bodies as they move, their moans mingling together, their panting breaths. Most of it is just Martin.

He _has_ thought about it, is the thing, and there’s a horrible, awful part of him that doesn’t want to let go of what he knows will be his only opportunity to hear him like this, to know what he sounds like when he’s about to come, the little gasping breaths he takes, like the air is too thin and he can’t get enough. Because when this is over it isn’t going to be Tim who can’t look at Martin.

Tim curls his free hand into a fist to keep from pressing it against his hardening cock, letting his nails bite into the palm of his hand, using the pain to ground him. It’s almost over; Mark is groaning steadily, the things leaving his mouth sounding more and more like the soundtrack of bad pornography. He’s close. Martin gives a sharp cry, and shortly after Mark gives a long, low groan.

There’s a soft smacking sound; a kiss. Then another, and another. Mark is peppering kisses along Martin’s neck and back. Occasionally Martin makes a soft noise of pain and Tim knows that he’s finding the hurt places, pressing against them, delighting in every soft shift Martin tries to make away from his touch. “That was so good,” he says. “Much better than I expected, to tell you the truth.” He sighs, and then Tim hears him move, hears clothes rustle and the sound of a pair of trousers being zipped. “And that’s a wrap,” he says, sounding amused.

“Is it?” Martin asks, and Tim wishes he could hear anger in his voice. Wishes there were some spark of defiance. But Martin just sounds worn out. Worn out and defeated, and Tim hates hearing it. Martin sounds as if he only expected it to go this way, and it twists at Tim’s heart, worse than almost anything else could have.

“Mark,” he says, pleading, but Mark doesn’t acknowledge him. Maybe he didn’t hear him; when he doesn’t hurt Martin in retaliation Tim figures that’s the case.

“Yes,” Mark says, voice quiet enough that Tim has to strain to hear. “We’re done, you and I. This wasn’t about you, and it will continue to not be about you if you don’t make me remember you exist. Do you know how to keep me from remembering you exist?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Martin says in that same dull voice. “Pretend it never happened.”

“That’s right! Easy enough to do, don’t you think? Or are these memories you want to cherish?” Martin doesn’t answer, but Mark doesn’t seem to expect one. “Of course you don’t. I imagine you just want to forget everything and everyone involved.” There’s the slightest emphasis on everyone that has Tim gritting his teeth against the urge to say something despite knowing what a bad idea it would be. _Fuck you_ , he thinks.

“He’s never going to go back to you,” Martin says, and there is the faintest spark there, in his voice. The smallest hint of the stubbornness that Tim heard earlier, returned in spite of all of Mark’s attempts to smother it.

There’s a long pause while Mark considers this, and Tim almost forgets to breathe, worried that Martin’s words are going to set Mark off again.

But no. “Maybe you’re right,” Mark says, and all the black anger from before is gone from his voice. “But maybe that wasn’t what this was about, exactly. Maybe I like to take my time.”

He kisses Martin again, deep and filthy and wet – Tim grips the mobile tightly in his hand and tells himself that it’s almost over, Mark will leave and Martin will be okay. A little bruised and cut up, very upset, but alive and able to put this behind him. All they have to do is get through this last bit.

Mark releases Martin’s mouth with an audible slurp. Tim hears him move closer to where he’d set the mobile. He speaks directly into it, for Tim’s ears alone. “What did I tell you? No one else. Anyone you try to move on with will get the same. Have your filthy little flings and one nighters, make your friends, enjoy your job. But don’t for one minute believe we’re done. We’ll never be done.”

Sound of footsteps, and when Mark next speaks he is farther away; he has to raise his voice for the mobile’s small speakers to pick it up. “He really is a wonderful lay, Tim. Too bad you’ll never know.” A door opens and shuts firmly, and then the room goes silent.

After a few moments Tim tries a hesitant “Martin?”

Martin lets out a shaky breath. “I think he’s really gone,” he says, and the shake is in his voice too. “I thought – I wasn’t sure if he’d go. He. I thought he was going to-“

“I’m so sorry,” Tim blurts. He knows that he should shut up, this isn’t about him, but he has to say something. “If it weren’t for me, you –“

“Don’t be stupid,” Martin snaps, and now all the fire that Tim had been afraid that Mark had knocked out of him is right there, directed at Tim. “This was all him. Every bit of it. He’s crazy. He thought he saw – and he just – it’s him. All of his was him, just him. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tim says. He’s not sure he believes it, or that Martin does either, not deep down, but there’s no point in arguing with him. That he doesn’t want to blame Tim is enough. It’s more than he could ask for.

“I’m – he left me –“ Martin falters, but Tim understands. He’s still naked and bound somewhere, possibly somewhere far away, and he needs help.

“Do you want me to – I can call someone.” He says.

“No! No, don’t call anyone. Please. I just want to forget this ever happened. Can you…” Martin doesn’t finish, but Tim doesn’t need him to. He understands

“Yeah. Yes. I’ll come. I’m on my way.” Tim grabs his keys and jacket and pauses at the door. “Do you know where you are?”

Martin gives a wet sounding laugh. “My flat,” he says, and Tim winces. _Fuck_ , he thinks.

“Okay. I’ll be there soon, just – just hang on.”

“Will you stay on?” Martin asks. “Don’t hang up.”

“I won’t.” Tim checks the battery on his mobile. It’s a little under half full. He notes in a half aware way that he has new emails and a new text message, but it barely registers. All that matters is getting to Martin. There’s a charger in his car; he can charge his mobile on the way without having to break his connection with Martin for a second.

It seems to take forever to get here; Martin doesn’t want to talk, he just seems to want to hear Tim breathe on the other end of the line and know that he’s coming, and Tim does his best to make it as reassuring as possible, if the sound of someone else breathing can be.

Finally though, he is parking by Martin’s flat, flinging himself out of the car and running up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste to get to Martin.

He finds him curled up on his sofa, doing his best to hide his nakedness. His back is to the door, and Tim swallows hard, taking in the welts forming around Martin’s wrists and ankles, the tiny cuts scattered along his back and neck. They aren’t deep, but of course that wasn’t the point. Martin will feel them for weeks whenever he puts on a shirt or tries to lie on his back, painful little reminders of everything he wants to forget.

“Martin,” he says softly, and Martin flinches so hard he rolls off of the sofa. He stares at Tim with wide, unseeing eyes for a moment before who it is registers and he relaxes.

“Tim,” he says, and his face crumples. Tim goes to him immediately; he makes short work of the rope binding Martin’s hands and feet and pulls him unresisting into his arms. There’s a moment when he thinks that Martin will pull away, that this is too much after what happened, but Martin practically melts into him; he buries his face in Tim’s neck and sniffles, and his arms creep around Tim’s waist, fingers curling into his jacket. 

Tim holds him for some time, long enough for both of them to stop shaking. Long enough that Martin’s tears taper off and his breathing steadies, and the tight grip he’s got on Tim loosens. Eventually he pulls back to look at Tim, and his eyes are wet and red rimmed but clear. “I should get dressed,” he says, sounding embarrassed. “And then I – could you drive me to a hotel or, or –“

“You can stay with me,” Tim says, and Martin nods, looking relieved.

“Thank you,” he says.

Martin goes to take a shower and pack a bag. Tim sits at the small kitchen table, back turned to the place he’d found him. He doesn’t want to look at it, and he doubts Martin is going to want to set foot in here for a long time, if ever again.

Tim’s mobile chimes, and he glances at it. It’s another text, and he sees that both are from the same unknown number. His stomach drops. _Don’t look at them,_ he thinks, even as he thumbs open the first one. _Don’t look_.

Inside the first text box is a link. Tim knows that he shouldn’t open it; never trust links from an unknown number, after all. Except he knows who this is from, doesn’t he? He clicks the link.

It’s a video, clearly shot with a mobile. It shows Mark and Martin on the same sofa Tim had found Martin on. They’re fucking. Martin’s spine is curved, arching into Mark’s thrusts and unbound hands tugging at his thighs, his arse, trying to pull him deeper. “Yes,” he says, the word coming out a pleasure filled hiss. “Harder.”

Mark pushes him forward, onto his hands and knees. Martin moans and presses his hands against the sofa, using it as leverage to push himself back onto Mark’s cock. One of his hands reaches for his own cock and Mark growls and slaps it away, and Martin moans again, high and desperate. His eyes are half-mast and clouded, movements almost sluggish, the drug that Mark no doubt slipped him before already doing its work. Mark looks at the camera and smiles, winks, and that’s when Tim closes the window.

The second text is a message. It’s only three words, but they freeze Tim’s blood.

_See you soon._

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Consent Issues, Arazsya. I really hope you enjoyed this. :)


End file.
